


If lies were bees, love, I'd be a hive

by Etalice



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: An abundance of natural disaster metaphors, And bee metaphors, First Kiss, First Time, I can't write porn, Lies, M/M, Magical Realism, Mentions of small wounds, Slight Internalised Homophobia, not that you can really tell
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-23
Updated: 2018-10-23
Packaged: 2019-08-06 08:35:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16384796
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Etalice/pseuds/Etalice
Summary: At the age of 38 years, 5 months and three days, John suddenly finds himself unable to lie.John has been in denial about everything for most his life. His skin suddenly decide it's had enough of that.





	If lies were bees, love, I'd be a hive

**Author's Note:**

> Ellipsical said, back in June, she'd like to read a fic in which Sherlock spoke French. So I planned an entire story, and then another one. And then I wrote this, in which Sherlock doesn't speak French at all. (The other fic will still be written, hopefully)
> 
> Unbetaed.

At the age of 38 years, 5 months and three days, John suddenly finds himself unable to lie. Later, when he’ll try telling Ella about it, she’ll smile softly and not believe him at all because, of course, if he were anyone else, this would just be a clever turn of phrase, a witty manner of expressing that after a lifetime of pushing falsehoods off his tongue (“I just fell down the stairs, miss, that’s how I got this bruise” and “Harry’ll stop drinking when she’s out of uni” and “Sex with a man is pure disgusting, innit?”), he's finally had enough of not telling the truth. But John is not anyone else, is he? And so it stands to reason that he should he find himself quite entirely unable to lie in the most literal sense.

It starts with Mycroft — of course it does, of course. It has to, because Mycroft is infuriating. He’s sitting in Sherlock’s chair when Sherlock hasn’t been home in days and it’s taken every single one of John’s breath to stop his bones from breaking from the thought. He’s stroking the dark leather with his cold fingers and it’s making John go entirely mad because this — is not how it’s supposed to go. It’s supposed to be Sherlock and him, and Sherlock is mad and mad and brilliant and never sits in chair like he’s supposed to. It’s supposed to be the two of them in a world where Mycroft is nothing more than the sound of a ringing phone; ignored. But Mycroft says “Sherlock’s using again” stiff spined and waxen faced and suddenly it’s not the two of them anymore, is it ? Suddenly, it’s not _SherlockandJohn_ — it’s John alonealonealone and Sherlock suddenlynotthere (oh god, Sherlock, Sherlock). It’s like John’s entire world falls apart in the space between those three words, and it’s ridiculous, really because John’s a bloody adult now, and he shouldn’t need — what exactly ? (But John’s been holding on by a thread for longer than he remember and John’s never been entirely right in the head)

“I just thought you should know,"Mycroft’s voice drips from the ceiling (cold and cold and sharp) “He’s an addict, John. He’ll never be clean, not long.” And John is desperate to be rid of his black black black shoes and suit and umbrella so he pushes out the first words he finds sitting on his tongue. “I don’t care”. The words make Mycroft tense like a dying spider, John grasps onto the fleeting reaction like he’s drowning. “You’d do well not to” (the black umbrella straightens, the black shoes shuffle about) “Like I said, he’s an addict.”

“Why does everyone always have to think I’m Sherlock’s nanny? I have a life that goes beyond whatever entirely idiotic thing he fancies doing this week, no matter how little Sherlock cares for the fact.” John bites the words into the air, vicious and angry (oh god, Sherlock, Sherlock.)

“Ah — anger. It is certainly comes easier to you than disappointment, John. Pity. It doesn’t fit you.” The black suit stands up. Black shoes treading on the carpet. Black umbrella swaying lazily towards the door. “I’ll be in touch.”

The door closes. (John collapses.)

By two in the morning, Sherlock stumbles back into the flat, dishevelled and covered in dirt and obscenely high. He barely makes it into his chair (legs dangling over one armrest, head lolling about on the other) and, of course, of course, John gets blazingly, mind-numbingly angry at him and all the while, John’s fingers take his pulse and check for signs and symptoms that this is any different from all the other times Sherlock’s come home off his arse in the wee hours of the morning — it’s not. John sits down on the floor and talks Sherlock through the dark of night and until dawn dances in the curtains (it’s not, and the air suddenly stops being water in John’s airways). Later, when Sherlock finally stops protesting sleep, John’ll shut the door to his bedroom and he’ll take off his trousers and sweater (the tang of wool and sweat and anxiety lingering in every thread) and that’s when he’ll see it. On his thigh, a black-purple bruise will be spreading like watercolours underneath his skin, even though he won’t be able to remember hurting himself at all. On his thigh, the bruise will spell “I care” and John won’t realise at once exactly how much trouble he’s in.

In fact, John doesn’t think about it until the next afternoon, until the bruise is still there when he wakes up and he stares at it in the bland, white light of December skies outside. He doesn’t entirely believe it at first — he’s a military man, John Watson, he’s a man of solid proof and tangible fact and pragmatism. No, he doesn’t entirely believe it at first — he’s a medical man, John Watson, he spent sleepless night after sleepless night, back at uni, reading articles and learning how the body works and staring at statistics to separate truth from lies.

So when Sherlock asks if there’s any tea left, he answers there’s not, even though he bought some just two days ago. (YES, mosquitoes bites spell on his calf.)

So when Mrs. Hudson asks him how he’s slept when he steps out to fetch shitty Indian takeaway, he says “fine” instead of telling her he didn’t sleep at all and the scratches on his arm feel itchy and warm as they whisper it for him. (He gets a spot of blood on the arm of his favourite shirt, just above the button at the wrist.)

So when Lestrade rings and offers a case, he says Sherlock’s been a absolute nuisance ever since he came back and God, he’d give anything to finally have a moment of peace without that lunatic whinging and whining and breaking furniture apart. (I MISSED HIM, sings a flat, silver scar winding across his hip.)

And this is how John Watson understands his skin has unilaterally decided to secede from his mind and his throat and his tongue. And it scares him, it does, because John Watson’s entire identity is held together by lies of heterosexuality and sanity. He took the words everyone wanted to hear and he spun them into a lovely, cozy blanket for himself, he knitted them around the very features of his face until he looked like someone else entirely. And this is the thing about John Watson : he doesn’t remember who he is underneath the silky, watery weight of expectations and of not wanting anyone to worry. And this is the thing about John Watson : he’s solved all his problems by not looking at them at all until he was staring down his gun in a crummy bedsit on an army pension with a psychosomatic limp. So, of course, he goes out and , of course, gets drunk out of his mind in a shitty pub where he doesn’t know anyone and by the time he crawls up the steps of 221B completely pissed and furious at the universe, his body is covered in “I’M A MESS” and “I DON’T KNOW WHAT I’M DOING” and “GOD, NO”. The next morning, he sits in the shower and lets water form rivulets all over his treacherous skin and counts the phrases littered over his epidermis (fourteen). Above his foot, he can make out a tiny burn, all minuscules and faint pink crying out “oh god, sherlock, sherlock” in the hollow behind the bone of his ankle.

He doesn’t do anything about it.

In January, he ignores how ofter the name _Sherlock_ is etched on his skin (well, they’re flatmates, aren’t they? Surely that explains why this single word snakes around the bones of his elbow and the muscles of his thigh more often than any other in the English language.) And he knows he should probably do something about the words appearing all over his body, really, because who in their right mind wouldn’t? (butJohn’s never been entirely right in the head) Besides, he wouldn’t know where to start anyway, he thinks, and soothed by the weight of immobility, he doesn’t do anything at all (because John’s been holding on by a thread for longer than he remember.)

In February, he takes to getting changed in the dark. Because this is the thing about John Watson : he’s been trying on girlfriends all his life (dark skin, fair skin, curly hair, short hair, blue eyes, green eyes, brown eyes, tens and tens of different laughs and different lives and different smiles and not one that ever fit). They felt all wrong, their warm bodies never quite the right shape, their voice never quite enough to stop him from wanting to — what exactly ? He never quite asks himself that question while thebedsheets coil around him like seaweed, until he feels quite sure he will drown if he stays a minute more. This is the thing about John Watson : Sherlock has eyes like electricity and limbs that burn like a bonfire. Sherlock lives with lightning storms inside his chest and thunder under his skin and John — John has been entirely, completely, miserably done for ever since he first set eyes on the man. It spreads across his chest in curly letters : an organic tattoo. ( _well, they’re best mates, aren’t they? Surely these feelings are nothing out of the ordinary_ — John turns off the light.)

In March, Sherlock confronts him. By then, John’s body is covered in words, crawling up and down his limbs like ants, curling around his bones, his head is filled with the heavy, humid fog of all the thoughts he refuses to let himself have, and there are hysterical night when he wishes Sherlock would finally deduce the impossible (he’s a bloody genius, is he not? He’s right sure of himself, the posh wanker, so why doesn’t he see? Why doesn’t he? Why doesn’t he?). In March, Sherlock deduces all wrong.

It starts with no case at all, not even a little one, for week and with Sherlock acting like the emptiness is slowly drilling holes into all of his teeth at once. John makes himself tea and tries to read the paper (Sherlock ends up throwing it on the floor, relentlessly repeating _No. Crime. No. Crime. No. Crime._ louder and louder). John finishes his cups and tells Sherlock to please limit lunatic raving to a minimum (as soon as he says it, he feels words swimming across his ribs like a thousand silver fish). He has time to read half a page of his medical journal before Sherlock comes tearing back into the room (his face: a lightning storm, luminous and terrifying).

“You took my drugs, John. You took them.” (his eyes are alight with fury and the colour of knives)

“You said you wouldn’t keep them in the house, Sherlock!” and John is suddenly alight as well, and alive in a way only Sherlock really manages to make him feel. He stands (journal fluttering to the ground in the white whisper of glossy paper), defiant. A sharp pain flashes along his shoulder blades and he’s entirely sure his skin is screaming that he can’t — he can’t have Sherlock disappearing again, he can’t have Mycroft sitting all wrong, all wrong, all wrong in his chair, he can’t go through the worry and the heartbreak and the absence again. He refuses to think about it.

“No, you took them. You used them, John. And you thought I wouldn’t notice.” Sherlock is pure electricity - fluid and incandescent and so gorgeous John doesn’t realise at once that he’s not making sense.

“ I’m… I… What? Sherlock, you’re being absurd.”

“ But I’m not, don’t you see? Did you think I wouldn’t notice? The subtle changes - you keep tugging your sleeves down even when they’re not riding up. The carefulness when you take that awful sweater off, the anxiety that flashes across your face when you think your shirt is riding up. Did you think I wouldn’t recognise the signs?” He’s triumphant and belligerent now (a blizzard, a flood, a forest fire). John realises he’s in more trouble than he expected. “Show me your arm, if you’ve got nothing to hide, John.”

“I do not have anything to prove, Sherlock.” John feels like liquid oxygen is slowly dripping down his spine, encasing his vertebrae in frost and burning away his skin. “I am not showing you my arm because you think I’m an addict. Some of us have this thing called self-control, you know?” (inside his flesh, his brittle bones shatter. the thread snaps.)  


“Fine!” Sherlock stalks to the door of his bedroom, and all John can think is that he’s gorgeous. Sherlock empties the contents of his entire desk on the floor and John can barely breathe, engulfed in the waves of want.

Shit. 

He’s a man and he’s the most beautiful person John’s ever seen and he’s entirely insane but John’s a madman too and he’s so alive, so alive when Sherlock is burning and flowing and crackling next to him. Suddenly every single lie he’s kept hidden behind his ribs is buzzing, buzzing, buzzing until his entire chest is a hive. He lets a small lie tentatively climb up his throat and sit on his tongue (a small, fuzzy weight that tickle inside his jaw).

“You’re the most gorgeous person I’ve ever seen.” he lets it take flight and his tongue curls around the truth.

“That is of little relevance to the current situation, John” Sherlock counters. And truth be told, if John wasn’t so entirely drunk on the feeling of finally, finally letting go, of finally unravelling all the thread he’s spun around himself, of finally breaking clean in two instead of keeping himself together with alcohol and duct tape, this would be enough to deter him. But he is, and so it doesn’t.

“You’re my best friend, and the only one person that ever make me feel alive Sherlock. Do you know how much this is worth to me? I’d be dead if I hadn’t met you. I’d have a hole in my head, Sherlock. And that’s not even the worse part — no one would have missed me, Sherlock. Do you even know what that’s like?” John’s babbling and he doesn’t care. Inside the hive, he can feel excitement building like the promise of spring after a long winter.

Sherlock: stops. A drawers lingers in mid-air. Half empty.

John doesn’t even notice. 

“I’m shit at emotions, Sherlock.” he continues. “Hell, I’m shit at a lot of things” (a dry laugh.) 

John undoes the first button of his plaid shirt. The drawer falls to the floor. 

“I think the thing I’m the most shit at is not lying to myself all the time.” 

John’s shirt is half open now and Sherlock looks like someone stabbed him clean through the chest. 

“Funny thing though, Sherlock, my body decided to help with that.” 

John drops his shirt to the floor and Sherlock makes a strangled, throaty kind of sound.

John’s torso is filled with words. Truths cut, and branded, and stung into him. Mundanes truths like “it’s too early” and “god, you bore me”. In-between truths like “some days, I just can’t get out of bed” and “I hate this job”. And all the important truths that spell SHERLOCK, SHERLOCK, SHERLOCK all over his skin. On his shoulder blade, a fresh cut begs _Don’t leave me again._

“I threw out your stash, Sherlock, because I can’t stomach the thought of you high off your face in a gutter somewhere. I threw out your bloody stash because I figured if you didn’t have the drugs, you wouldn’t leave again to go God knows where, and your brother wouldn’t crawl into the flat to inform me you are an addict and can’t be trusted.” In a fluid motion, John drops down his trousers and turns to face Sherlock, madness dancing in his eye. 

His body : an offering. 

In his chest, the last bees are waking from their long slumber, he can feel them tentatively moving.

“John…” a strangled whisper. Sherlock’s face is transfixed in an emotion John’s never seen before — he looks like a madonna, pure and pained and exquisite. “Oh, John” he says again and extends a long, pale hand to touch John’s torso. When fingers come into contact with skin, John sucks in a breath and steadies himself against the wall (oh god, Sherlock, Sherlock.) 

“You magnificent idiot.” Sherlock breathes, learning the truth from John’s ribs and elbows and hips.

“I’m in love with you.” John lets the last of the bees take flight. “I’ve been in love with you for longer than I can remember” he breathes into the air, half crying half whispering.

-“John” Sherlock looks like melting wax or quicksilver, his palms flush against John’s chest now covering at least half a dozen different small declarations of love. His body is warm and all the right shape as John lets his hand run over the arms - the shoulders - the back. Sherlock exhales sharply and so John kisses him.

Kissing Sherlock is all the colours at once. It’s clumsy and wet and Sherlock is whimpering into John’s mouth but it feels raw and organic and right. This — John thinks, as honey drips, warm and sweet, from the hive in his heart and down, down, down into the pit of his belly — this is what he’s needed forever. Sherlock clings onto him like he’s drowning and John holds him tight, tight, tight and suddenly it’s _JohnandSherlock_ in an entirely new way.

Kissing Sherlock is a lightning storm and an avalanche and a house fire and John thinks his skin will peel off from the heat and the electricity but nothing can make him stop now, not when Sherlock is trembling against him and whispering his name in every breath and pushing him harder into the wall. John’s hands find their way under Sherlock’s shirt and onto his soft, warm skin and it feels — right. John is kissing a man and it feels right, at last. John is kissing Sherlock and it’s — everything.

“Let me” John breathes against Sherlock’s mouth with fingers at the collar of his shirt. Sherlock moans against John’s skin (God, yes. God.) and John fears Sherlock’ll become entirely liquid in his arms as he slowly undoes every button, and John fears his heart might stop as he slips the shirt of Sherlock’s shoulders and presses against him, skin against skin. The rest is a blur of mouth and skin and fingers, of breath and whimpers and moans as they learn each other’s bodies by heart. Later, John will try to commit the whole thing to memory but he’ll remember only bits and pieces — the way Sherlock was pliant and warm underneath him, the way he said John’s name like a mantra, louder and louder, the way his gorgeous face looks when he comes and the way his entire body tenses under John’s hands and the powerful rush of _oh god, I did that, I did that_. And John will treasure those memories, even when he’ll have learned all the spots that make Sherlock go weak, even when Sherlock’ll know exactly how to make him cry out because this — the messy, heady taste of first kisses and trembling hands — makes the honeycomb in his heart swell, and swell, and swell until he’s entirely sure his chest is too small for it.

When their bodies finally still, heavy and sated, intertwined on the wooden floor, Johnrealises he doesn’t feel the familiar seaweed of regret and guilt tug at his legs. “I love you”, he whispers onto Sherlock’s neck because he can’t stop saying it now and the more he says it, the more the words on his chest fade to silver and white, like old scars until they disappear entirely.

Sherlock, of course, still contends that he doesn’t know how to love. He is not made for emotions, he says. John doesn’t care at all, because Sherlock kisses him and touches him and whispers his name like a binding spell when he thinks John is sleeping. John doesn’t care at all, because he’s not quite right in the head, and he doesn’t need the kind of romance everyone always expected him to have, because he _is_ loved. John doesn’t care at all because for the first time in his life, he’s not hanging by a thread, and because his chest is not covered in words anymore (at most, it's a matter of fleeting phrases that appear as he abides to the basics of politeness, the small painless kind that look like cat scratches and disappear after a day).

Mycroft knows immediately. He doesn’t say anything, but he comes by the flat, and doesn’t sit in Sherlock’s chair, and doesn’t tell John that caring for Sherlock is a mistake. Instead, he sends Sherlock into the kitchen under a made-up pretence, and he stares at John’s face and he says “you’d do well not to hurt him”. And John, who only ever tells the truth now, stares back and says “not on my life”.


End file.
